Buried Sins (5 page)

“It’s pretty dark. I’d like to find something a little brighter to draw people’s attention.” She hefted the screen. At least it was easily movable. She’d left most of her craft-show things to be shipped with the apartment’s contents, and who knew when the moving company would finally get them here?

“I know just the thing. There are loads of handmade quilts stored in trunks. Throw one of them over the screen, and you’ve got instant color.”

“That would work.” It was nice to have Rachel so willing to support her.

Rachel lifted the lid of the nearest trunk. “By the way, did you ever get in touch with your friend in Santa Fe? The one who was worried about you?”

And that was the flip side of support. You owed someone else an explanation of your actions.

“Yes, we had a long talk. I should have called her sooner.”

She hadn’t, because she hadn’t been especially eager to listen to Francine, who had been appalled that Caro had, as she put it, run away.

Well, what else would you call it? That’s what you do. You run away when things turn sour.
She’d run from home. She’d packed up and left every time a relationship went bad or a job failed. That was always the default action. Leave.

Rachel, burrowing into the trunk, didn’t respond, leaving her free to mull over that conversation with Francine. She’d told Francine what she hadn’t told her family—about the man who’d accosted her in the plaza, his demands, his conviction that Tony was still alive.

Surprisingly, Francine hadn’t rejected that instantly.

“Honestly, Caro, I can’t say I knew Tony all that well.” She’d sounded troubled. “We worked on a couple of charity events together, and I knew basically what everyone else did—that he was smart, charming, well connected. As for any problems…well, did you think he might have been gambling?”

“That would be an explanation, wouldn’t it?” She’d felt her way, trying that on for size. “I never saw any proof, one way or the other.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Francine about the disappearance of her own money, but something held her back. Loyalty, maybe, after the wedding promises she’d made. Or just because it revealed how stupid she’d been.

“One thing I’m sure of,” Francine said. “If Tony did fake his death in some bizarre need to get out of a difficult situation, he’d find some way to let you know he’s still alive. You can be sure of that.”

She hadn’t found that as comforting as Francine had obviously intended. How could she?

“Caroline.” Rachel’s voice suggested that she’d said Caro’s name several times. “Where are you? You look a thousand miles away.” Her expression changed. “I’m sorry. Were you thinking about your husband?”

“Yes, I guess I was.” But her thoughts hadn’t been what Rachel probably imagined. She went to help her lift a sheet-wrapped bundle from a trunk. “I’m all right. Really.” Her mind flicked back to that conversation over the dinner table. “No matter what Andrea might think.”

“Oh, honey, Andrea didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Don’t be mad at her.”

“I’m not.” She found herself smiling. “You were always the buffer, weren’t you? Sometimes you’d side with me, sometimes with Andrea, but usually you were the peacemaker.”

“Well, somebody had to be.” Smiling back, Rachel began unwrapping the sheet.

The urge to confide in Rachel swept over her, so strong it startled her. She could tell Rachel, because Rachel had always been the understanding one.

But it wasn’t fair to ask Rachel to keep her secrets. And she wasn’t ready to risk trusting anyone with her troubles and mistakes.

“There.” Rachel unrolled the quilt, exposing the vibrant colors of the design. “It’s a Log Cabin quilt, one of the ones Emma’s mother made, I think.”

“It’s beautiful.” She touched the edge carefully, aware of the damage skin oils could do to aged fabric. “If you’re sure you don’t mind—”

“It’s as much yours as mine,” Rachel said. “There might be something you’d like better, though.” She pulled out the next bundle, this one wrapped in a yellowing linen sheet. “Goodness, this is really an old one.” She squinted at a faded note pinned to the fabric. “According to this, it was made by Grandfather’s grandmother in 1856.”

“It should be on display, not stored away.” The sheet fell back, exposing the quilt. She frowned. “That’s an unusual design, isn’t it?”

Rachel pointed to the triangles that soared up the fabric. “Flying geese, combined with a star. I don’t know enough about antique quilts to have any idea.” She folded the sheet back over it.

Caro felt an almost physical pang as the quilt disappeared from view. To actually hold something that had been made by an ancestress almost 150 years ago—had she been as captivated by color and pattern as Caro was? Had she lost herself in her work, too?

“Well, it certainly needs to be better preserved than it is. If you don’t mind, I’ll see if I can find out how it should be kept.”

“Be my guest. That’s more your domain than mine.” Rachel laid the bundle gently back in the trunk.

Taking the Log Cabin quilt, Caroline stood, stretching. “I’ll run this down first and then come back and help carry the—”

Her words died as she passed the attic window. She hadn’t realized that from this height she could see over the outbuildings to the barn, even to the walk that curved around to the door of her apartment. And to the flash of movement on that walk.

“Someone’s out there.” She grabbed Rachel’s arm, her heart thudding. He was back. The person who’d been in the apartment was back.

“Who? What?” Rachel followed her gaze. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Someone was there, by the apartment. I’m not imagining things, and I’ll prove it.” She thrust the quilt into Rachel’s arms and rushed toward the stairs.

“I
told you not to call him.” Caroline glanced from the police car that was bumping down the rutted lane to the barn to her sister.

Rachel looked guilty but determined. “If someone’s been prowling around your apartment, it’s a matter for the police. I know you had a bad experience—”

“That has nothing to do with it.” Rachel didn’t know just how bad that experience had been, and she had no intention of telling her. “I suppose it won’t hurt to talk to the man, but there’s nothing he can do.”

Zach Burkhalter slid out of the police car, probably in time to hear what she said. Or, if not, he was quick enough to guess at the conversation based on their expressions. He came toward them with that deceptively casual-looking stride.

“You reported a prowler, Rachel?” He glanced from Rachel to her, as if measuring their responses.

“My sister was the one who saw him. She’ll tell you all about it.” Rachel turned away, as if leaving.

“Wait a minute.” Caro grabbed her arm. She was the one who’d called the man. At least she could stick around for moral support. “You’re not going.”

Rachel pulled free. “I’d better get back to the house and tell Grams everything is okay. Unless you want to have her out here, that is?”

“Of course not.” That was hardly something she could argue, but her sister was going to hear about this later.

“Just tell Zach what you saw. You can trust him. He’s one of the good guys.” Rachel turned and hurried off around the corner of the barn toward the house.

Caro glanced at the police chief, catching a bemused expression on his face. “You look surprised. Didn’t you know my sister thought that about you?”

He shrugged. “Plenty of people don’t have good opinions of cops. Like you.”

The words dismayed her. Was she really that obvious? “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Ms. Hampton, I suspect you’d be about as happy to see a snake on your doorstep as to see me. But your sister called me to report a prowler, so I’m here.”

She would definitely pay Rachel back for this one. “You’d better come in, but I don’t know what you can do.”

“Why don’t you let me figure that one out.”

He followed her inside, and the apartment immediately felt smaller than it should. A police chief, even one in a place as small as Churchville, probably found that air of command useful. She just found it unsettling.

She gestured toward the leather couch and sat down opposite him on the bentwood rocker. “There isn’t much to tell. Rachel and I were up in the attic of the house, and I glanced out the window. I hadn’t realized that you could see the barn clearly from that height. I saw—”

She hesitated. Had she seen enough to be sure?

“Go ahead.” He leaned forward. “Just tell it the way you saw it, without second-guessing.”

She nodded. That was exactly what she’d been doing. “I could see the end of the walk that leads to the apartment door. I had a quick glimpse of a figure heading toward the door, but he was out of sight almost before it registered.”

“Male?”

She closed her eyes, visualizing. “I said ‘he’ but I’m not sure. It was just an impression of a human figure, probably male, wearing something dark—maybe a jacket.”

The face of the man in the plaza came back to her. He’d worn a denim jacket. Would that have looked dark from a distance?

“Did you see anything else? A vehicle, maybe?”

“No. I ran down the stairs, hoping I could get a look at him. But the dog started to bark, and that could have alerted him. By the time Rachel and I got here, there was no one in sight. And before you ask, it doesn’t look as if anyone got inside.” She shrugged. “I told you it was a wild-goose chase. That was why I didn’t want Rachel to call.”

He seemed to have a face designed for expressing doubt. “Did you hear a car when you were running out here?”

“I don’t think so.” She frowned. “There was traffic going by on the road, but I don’t think I heard anything any closer. You’re thinking that if there really was a prowler, he’d have had to come in a vehicle.”

He seemed to suppress a sigh. “Ms. Hampton, maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to assume you know what I’m thinking.”

There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that. “You seem to be on a first-name basis with my sister.”

His gray eyes seemed to lighten with his smile. “I’ve known her a bit longer. And what I was thinking was that it’s not a wild-goose chase if you believe you saw someone who shouldn’t be here.”

She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “All right. Thank you.”

“Still, it makes me wonder.” His voice was as easy as if they talked about the weather. “What makes you so quick to decide someone’s been prowling around?”

Her hands twisted, tight against each other. He thought he’d boxed her in. “Anyone would think that if—”

He was shaking his head. “You’re afraid of something. You don’t want to talk about it, but you are.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m not afraid.”

“You left Santa Fe in such a hurry that you didn’t even tell your friends where you were going. That looks a lot like running. And if someone’s been prowling around here, maybe you had a good reason to run.”

She couldn’t seem to come up with any rational explanation that would satisfy him and send him away.

He leaned toward her, and she stiffened to keep from pulling back. “Caroline, if you’re in trouble, the best thing you can do is tell me about it. Because sooner or later I’ll find out what’s going on, and it would be better coming from you than from someone else.”

She wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t. She seemed to be poised on the edge of a high dive, ready to plunge into the unknown. “Someone threatened me.”

“When? Where?” He didn’t raise his voice, but she felt the demand in it.

“In Santa Fe.” She pressed her hand to her head. “The day before I left there. He’d been following me, and I kept telling myself it was my imagination, but then he grabbed my arm.” Something seemed to quake inside her.

Zach reached out, brushing the sleeve of her shirt back. “He left marks.”

She looked down at the bruises, faint and yellow now.

“Did you know him?”

“No. I’d never seen him before I noticed him outside the gallery where I worked. And later outside my apartment building.”

“So this man you didn’t know accosted you. Why didn’t you yell for help? Call the police?”

That was what a normal person would do, she supposed. “Because of what he asked me.” She took a breath, feeling as if she hadn’t inhaled for several minutes. “He wanted to know where Tony was. My husband. And he’d been dead for over two weeks.”

“If he didn’t know—”

She shook her head. “He knew about the accident. He said that faking your own death was a good thing to do if Santa Fe was getting too hot for you. And that other people might believe it, but he didn’t.”

“That took you by surprise?”

She stared at him. “Of course it did. My husband was dead. The police told me—showed me pictures of the burned-out car.” She had to force the rest of it out. “The fire—there wasn’t much left, but I had a funeral.”

His face didn’t give anything away. He might believe her. Or he might be thinking she was crazy.

“This man. What did he want?”

“He said Tony owed him a hundred thousand dollars.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “He wanted it. From Tony or from me.”

“Why did your husband owe him the money?” He was relentless. Of course he would be. He was a cop.

“I don’t know that he did. I don’t know anything about it. I just knew the man scared me and I wanted to get away.” She lifted her hands. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know, any more than I could have told him.”

“Okay.” He touched her hand in a brief gesture of…what? Sympathy? Or did he just want to calm her enough to get more answers? “Was your husband a gambler?”

“I don’t know.” She thought of the missing money. If she told him, it would lend credence to the gambling theory.

But she couldn’t. She didn’t want him, or anyone, to know just what a sham her marriage had been. “I suppose that makes sense. I can’t think of any other way he could owe that much.”

Zach leaned back, giving her a little breathing room. “So this guy scared you. And instead of going to the police or your friends, you left.”

At least he hadn’t said “ran away.” She met his eyes. “I have family here. With my husband dead, I wanted to be with them.”

“I can understand that.” But his eyes held a reservation. “So, this man. You’re an artist. Can you draw his face?”

She blinked at the sudden change of subject when she’d expected more questions about Tony, more about why she’d left. “I did a sketch right after it happened, but then I tore it up. I’ll do another. Would that help?”

“It can’t hurt. I can fax it to the authorities in Santa Fe, see what they can come up with. If he’s in my territory, I want to know it.”

“You think he’s the one who got into the apartment.” She hadn’t expected him to agree with her. “How could he have had access to that letter?”

He shrugged. “The letter might somehow have gotten into the things you packed.”

“Or he might have searched the apartment in Santa Fe. Found it in the trash.” That made sense. “He’d been outside the building. I saw him.”

“Possible.” His tone didn’t give her a clue as to whether he believed her or not. “About that sketch?”

The thought of him watching over her shoulder while she drew that face tightened her nerves. “I’ll work on it and drop it off at your office later this afternoon.”

“Fine.” He rose. “But you don’t need to bring it to me. I’ll stop by for it.”

If she argued, it would sound as if having him here bothered her. It did, but she’d rather he didn’t know.

Of course, he’d probably figured it out already.

“All right.” She stood, too, walking him to the door as if he were any ordinary visitor. “Thank you.”

“Just one other thing.” He paused, holding the door.

She looked at him, eyebrows lifting.

“What he said about your husband. Do you think your husband is still alive, Caroline?”

“No.” The word was out, harsh and emphatic, before she thought. She took a breath. “No, I don’t.”

Zach nodded. Then he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

Caroline spread a length of black velvet over the metal folding table Rachel had unearthed for her to use at the craft show. All around her, the cement block fire hall echoed with the clatter and chatter of a hundred-plus crafters getting ready for the event. The doors opened at nine, and everyone wanted to be ready.

The aroma of coffee floated from the food stand at the end of the row. Maybe, once she was set up, she could ask the stall holder next to her to watch the stand while she went for a quart or two of caffeine.

She smoothed out the cloth with her palms and bent to retrieve the first box of jewelry. Silly, maybe, but being here made her feel at home. Veterans of craft shows were a friendly bunch, and Caro had found that no matter what they made, they shared a common bond.

That love of creating something beautiful with your hands was hard to describe but very real. She might not personally understand the drive to make, for instance, the ruffled toilet paper covers that the stand across the walkway offered, but she did know the pleasure of creation.

She began laying out an assortment of turquoise and silver bracelets and necklaces, loving the way they glowed against the black velvet.

“Those are gorgeous.” The basket weaver in the next booth leaned over to have a closer look. “I just might end up spending more than I make today. Where did you learn to work with turquoise? Not around here.”

Caro shook her head. “Out West. Santa Fe, mostly. The Zunis do some amazing work with silver and turquoise.”

“Gorgeous,” the woman said again, then grinned and held out her hand. “Karen Burkhalter. Welcome. This is your first time here, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She returned a firm grip. Blond hair, hazel eyes, an open, friendly face with a turned-up nose—the woman was probably about her age, she’d guess, with the engaging air of someone who’d never met anyone she didn’t turn into a friend.

Burkhalter was a common enough name in Pennsylvania Dutch country. Chances were she didn’t even know Zach.

“I’m Caroline Hampton.”

“Oh, sure. Your grandmother is Katherine Unger. Everyone knows her youngest granddaughter came home.”

“I’m not sure I care for that much celebrity.”

Karen grinned. “It’s a small township, and most of us have known each other since birth. You’ll get used to how nosy we all are about each other’s lives.”

That was an uncomfortable thought. “You have a great assortment of baskets.” She picked one up, admiring the stripes worked into the weaving with different colored reeds. “Is this an egg basket?”

Karen nodded. “They’re popular with the tourists, not that any of them are likely to be gathering eggs.”

“As long as they buy.” That, after all, was the whole point. If she could make a decent amount on the show, she wouldn’t feel as if she dangled on a financial precipice.

“The crafters’ slogan,” Karen agreed. “It’s hard to tell whether people will be in a buying mood or not. Usually around here the shows start pretty small, but as we move on into spring, sales pick up.”

“If there’s a good turn-out—” She stopped, because a familiar figure was headed toward Karen’s booth.

Zach Burkhalter. It wasn’t a coincidence, then, about the name.

Karen leaned across the table to hug him. “Hey, it’s about time you’re showing up. I want my coffee.”

In jeans and a flannel shirt instead of a uniform, Zach should have looked less intimidating. He didn’t.

His gaze shifted from Karen to her, his hand still resting on the other woman’s shoulder. His wife? There was absolutely no reason for that possibility to set up such a negative reaction in her.

“Caroline. I didn’t realize you were jumping into the craft-show circuit.”

“You two know each other, then,” Karen said. “I should have known. Being the police chief gives my brother an unfair advantage in meeting newcomers.”